Debt of Honor

He'd already wasted an hour trying to explain that to his Soviet counterpart.

'So like the steppes here,' the man said, shivering in the wind. They both watched a small TV for their cue.

'It's a shame we don't have the politicians around here to give us some hot air.' He took his hand off the safety switch. Why couldn't they just get on with it?

The Russian officer knew his American English well enough to laugh at the remark, feeling inside his oversized parka for a surprise he had in waiting for the American.

'Mr. President, the hospitality we have experienced in this great city is proof positive that there should be, can be, and will be a friendship between our two peoples—just as strong as our old feelings were, but far more productive. Today, we put an end to war,' Durling concluded to warm applause, returning to shake Grushavoy's hand again. Both men sat down. Oddly, now they had to take their orders from an American TV director who held a headset to his face and talked very quickly.

'Now,' men said in two languages, 'if the audience will turn to the TVs…'

'When I was a lieutenant in the pioneers,' the Russian President whispered, 'I loved blowing things up.'

Durling grinned, leaning his head in close. Some things were not for microphones. 'You know the job I always wanted as a boy—do you have it over here?'

'What is that, Roger?'

'The guy who runs the crane with the big iron ball for knocking buildings down. It has to be the best job in the whole world.'

'Especially if you can put your parliamentary opposition in the building first!' It was a point of view that both shared.

'Time,' Durling saw from the director.

Both men put their thumbs on their buttons.

'On three, Ed?' Durling asked.

'Yes, Roger!'

'One,' Durling said.

'Two,' Grushavoy continued.

'Three!' both said, pressing them down.

The two buttons closed a simple electrical circuit that led to a satellite transmitter outside. It took roughly a third of a second for the signal to go up to the satellite and come back down, then another third for the result to retrace the same path, and for a long moment a lot of people thought that something had gone wrong. But it hadn't.

'Whoa!' the Major observed when a hundred pounds of Composition-Four went off. The noise was impressive, even from half a mile, and there followed the tower of flame from the ignition of the solid-fuel rocket motor.

That part of the ceremony had been tricky. They'd had to make sure that the thing would burn from the top only. Otherwise the missile might have tried to fly out of the silo, and that would just not have done at all. In fact the whole exercise was unnecessarily complicated and dangerous. The cold wind drove the toxic exhaust smoke to the east, and by the time it got to anything important, it would just be a bad smell, which was pretty much what you could say about the political conditions that had occasioned the existence of the burning rocket motor, wasn't it? There was a certain awe to it, though. The world's largest firework, burning backwards for about three minutes before there was nothing left but smoke. A sergeant activated the silo fire-suppression system, which actually worked, rather to the Major's surprise.

'You know, we had a drawing to see who'd get to do this. I won,' the officer said, getting to his feet.

'I was just ordered to come. I am glad I did. Is it safe now?'

'I think so. Come on, Valentin. We have one more job to do, don't we?'

Both men got into an HMMWV, the current incarnation of the Army jeep, and the Major started it up, heading for the silo from upwind. Now it was just a hole in the ground, generating steam. A CNN crew followed, still giving a live feed as the vehicle bumped across the uneven prairie. Their vehicle stopped two hundred yards away, somewhat to their annoyance, while the two officers dismounted their vehicle, carrying gas masks against the possibility that there was still enough smoke to be a health concern. There wasn't. Just the nasty smell. The American officer waved the TV crew in and waited for them to get ready. That took two minutes.

'Ready!' the unit director said.

'Are we in agreement that the silo and missile are destroyed?'

'Yes, we are,' the Russian replied with a salute. Then he reached behind his back and pulled two crystal glasses from his pockets. 'Would you hold these please, Comrade Major?'

Next came a bottle of Georgian champagne. The Russian popped the cork with a wide grin and filled both glasses.

'I teach you Russian tradition now. First you drink,' he said. The TV crew loved it.

'I think I know that part.' The American downed the champagne. 'And now?'

'The glasses may never be used for a lesser purpose. Now you must do as I do.' With that the Russian turned and poised himself to hurl his glass into the empty hole. The American laughed and did the same.

'Now!' With that, both glasses disappeared into the last American Minuteman silo. They disappeared in the steam, but both could hear them shatter against the scorched concrete walls.

'Fortunately, I have two more glasses,' Valentin said, producing them.

'Son of a bitch,' Ryan breathed. It turned out that the American at the Russian silo had had a similar idea, and was now explaining what 'Miller time!' meant. Unfortunately, aluminum cans didn't break when thrown.

'Overly theatrical,' his wife thought.

'It isn't exactly Shakespeare, but if t'were done when t'were done, then at least it's done, honey.' Then they heard the corks popping off amid the sounds of applause.

'Is the five-billion-dollars part true?'

'Yep.'

'So, Ivan Emmetovich, we can be truly friends now?' Golovko asked, bringing glasses. 'We finally meet, Caroline,' he said graciously to Cathy.

'Sergey and I go way back,' Jack explained, taking the glass and toasting his host.

'To the time I had a gun to your head,' the Russian observed. Ryan wondered if it were an historical reference…or a toast to the event?

'What?' Cathy asked, almost choking on her drink.

'You never told her?'

'Jesus, Sergey!'

'What are you two talking about?'

'Dr. Ryan, once upon a time your husband and I had a…professional disagreement that ended up with myself holding a pistol in his face. I never told you, Jack, that the gun wasn't loaded.'

'Well, I wasn't going anywhere anyway, was I?'

'What are you two talking about? Is this some inside joke?' Cathy demanded.

'Yeah, honey, that's about right. How is Andrey Il'ich doing?'

'He is well. In fact, if you would like to see him, it can be arranged.'

Jack nodded. 'I'd like that.'

'Excuse me, but who exactly are you?'

'Honey,' Jack said. 'This is Sergey Nikolayevich Golovko, Chairman of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.'

'KGB? You know each other?'

'Not KGB, madam. We are much smaller now. Your husband and I have been…competitors for years now.'

'Okay, and who won?' she asked.

Both men had the same thought, but Golovko said it first: 'Both of us, of course. Now, if you will permit, let me introduce you to my wife, Yelena. She is a pediatrician.' That was something CIA had never bothered to find out, Jack realized.

He turned to look at the two presidents, enjoying the moment despite being surrounded by newsies. It was the first time he'd actually been to an event like this, but he was sure they weren't always this chummy. Perhaps it